THROUGH THE FIRE: still, grandpa (part 1)

In a town called Independenceup in the Owens Valleya small museumholds a panoramic photographof the farmers in Manzanarduring the war

you can only see it once a yearwhen it is put out on displayfor a Pilgrimagethe descendants maketo meet with the ghostswho hover aroundthe fences of Inyo County

the spirits usher us around theirformer campwith haughty high noonexhalestempting us toward thestreams where theirhands onceproffered treasureto the puzzled desertand made introductionsbetween cherries and barkwisteria and wireeggplant and tumbleweedcucumber and dust

the river was aloofto most but nothingmore than a challengeto the farmers who weremasters at designingthe mazethat would irrigatedistant wishes into dreams realized right through the vast, abandoned domainunderneath their green feet,turning once pitied dirt into the richest of soil

they did thisfor their sonslike my father who would run with friendsfrom mess hallto mess hall come dinner timeto see how the new crops werebeing representedon the plate

they did thisso the rumors of wartime officialsstealing meat rationswould matter lessfor their stoic daughterslike my motherwho even at 3 years of ageknew she wasn’t supposed to learn the meaning of seasonswhile lockedup in a desert camp

the first time I madepilgrimage to meetGrandpa’s ghostmy brother pointed outthat photo

when you go to find itlook towards the very center and you willsee a man in a clean white t-shirtand a long, thick,black beard

in every other picturetaken of my grandfatheroutside of camphe was always clean shavenin a button down shirtwith rolled up sleevesunderneath a vestor tieready for the businesshe took from farmto grocery store

now when I look at thispicture of the farmersI wish it to be a digital photoin a frame with a touch screenso I could expand the imagewith my fingers and zoom inon the detail of hisface

I’d like to think I couldtell what was behind thebeard and confirmwhat looks like a smilefor all the glorious vegetationposing so splendidlyin the foreground

what I can see isthe posture of a proud spirita fierce farmerand a manwho didn’t need tobe pretty for that kind of place

that place where the farmerslike my grandfatherwho had nothing toproveand for no one elsebut their familiesraisedinto a home

traci kato-kiriyama is a Sansei writer who pens letters and memories in the form of poetry and prose from corners all over Los Angeles.

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